How Little We Know
by germanjunkiewhore
Summary: AU Noir: Set in the spring of 1948, Detective Clint Barton comes across two murder cases that share similar connections. A pair of golden earrings leads him to the Pearl of Danube Club. One thing leads to another before he suspects the night club's singer—Stalingrad native Natasha Romanoff—of having a connection to both cases. Clint/Natasha. *movie-verse*
1. Chapter 1

_A/n: I really enjoy the Black Widow and Hawkeye pairing. Naturally, this idea came about not that long ago. I hope you enjoy! _

* * *

Clint Barton was different from most men.

Most men had a wife and a couple of kids, Clint Barton did not. Most men had long term goals they wanted to achieve before reaching a certain age, Clint Barton did not. Instead, the young detective was married to his work and his crowning achievements were his children—even though he had no current achievements to claim. His only goal was to get promoted which would add more coin to his paycheck. Not to say that his current salary wasn't good enough, it paid the bills and kept him well-nourished. Where most men would spend it at the bars, Clint saved when it was necessary.

His graceful strokes of the pen on the legal pad didn't falter as he continued to write the report. His dark gray fedora laid forgotten on the top corner of his desk whilst he focused on the details. It was well into the morning by the time he had started writing it. By then, his fellow detectives were bustling about the department not giving him the time of day. Not that he would ask for it.

A thick blue folder fell on his desk which caused him to suddenly seize his writing in order to glare at the sudden invasion. Papers were poking out from the opening, and a white strip with black calligraphy gave him an idea to what the monstrosity held.

_The Gypsy cases._

"Today's your lucky day." Clint's eyes darted up to meet those of his captain. "The cases are being handed to you."

The detective blinked once before turning his gaze to the blue folder once more. "May I ask why, captain?"

"You could, but that's not gonna help you solve these cases, now is it?"

Captain Nicholas Fury always had a way of getting straight to the point without going off topic. The cases in question had been open for four months now, and so far there had been no current leads. There was absolutely nothing to go on and it poked at Clint's curiosity. The gypsy cases were well-known among the Los Angeles populace and across the nation. Most had come up with theories that they were connected to the murder last year in '47, but the investigators and detectives alike had known that the murderer's MOs didn't fit the Black Dahlia case.

Now, in the spring of 1948, both murders were a month apart and in turn caused Los Angeles to be on edge once more.

Both were women, both were young in age, and both were killed with a clean cut across the throat and left to bleed out. It didn't match the Elizabeth Short case at all. Not only that, but left at both scenes were pieces of gold jewelry. What concerned the authorities was the fact that the pieces didn't belong to the women, they were in fact left by the killer. Thus, they had dubbed both cases the "Gypsy murders".

Clint was weary of the prospect of having these cases to deal with. Though he put on a clever façade and managed to give him a smirk. "Thank you, sir."

Captain Fury sat on the edge of his desk. One hand rested on his leg as he gazed at the brooding detective with close scrutiny. "You don't seem thankful. What's eating away at you?"

The younger man shook his head as he grimaced at the folder, not once looking up to meet his captain's questioning gaze. In truth, Clint knew he should show gratitude from having been trusted with this, but instead a sudden wave of nostalgia hit him from out of nowhere. It was an uncomfortable feeling, a feeling that twisted his insides into knots and threatened to end his existence.

If he didn't say anything now, he was sure Captain Fury would make a dead on assumption. Then, he would have to own up to it.

"The second vic. She lived in my apartment building over on La Brea Avenue."

Fury gave a low sound which meant that he was putting two and two together. "Did you know her personally?"

"Not at all," Clint responded, his eyes still on the thick blue folder. "I'd just seen her from time to time…nothing personal about it, cap."

There was a pause in which Clint was sure that Fury wasn't buying it. He kept his dark eyes trained on the detective for another moment longer before getting off the desk. He then turned around and placed a hand atop of the folder while managing to catch the detective's gaze.

"If you have a personal attachment to this case, I _can_ assign it to someone else. I'll tell you what, though; I'm not going to. I wouldn't give this case to you if I didn't think you were capable. Truth is, Barton, you're the only one I can trust with this. We only have so much time until this guy strikes again and I'm not about to gamble this away to just anyone."

The lump that had formed in Clint's throat immediately vanished once he gulped it down. He didn't do it out of fear it wasn't anything like that. He understood where the captain was coming from, and to hear that from him personally managed to make him rethink his stance on accepting the assignment. He could back out, but it wouldn't give these cases the closure they deserved. Fury was right on the money when he mentioned that it would be likely the killer may strike again. And then what? He would be feeling worse then the day he found Barbara Morse's body on the floor of her apartment.

He couldn't—wouldn't let himself go through that again.

"I'm gonna take that responsibility."

A smile overcame Fury's features in an instant almost as if he expected Clint to say yes—perhaps he did. He grasped the man's hand and gave it a firm shake before letting go and heading towards the door. Without another word, he left Clint alone with the folder and his thoughts.

He heaved a sigh before reaching over to position the folder and opened the cover to reveal its contents. The first face was somewhat familiar considering that he had seen her down in the morgue. Her name was Patsy Walker, age twenty-two, with bright red hair and piercing blue eyes. She was quite the looker, and apparently a dame like her caught the likes of various would be suitors. All of who had been questioned immediately following her death.

_A clean slit across the victim's throat. _

_Golden bangle left at the scene. _

_No evidence of forced entry. _

Clint's eyes darted across the room and once he saw no one was around, he turned over the stack of pages and found her staring up at him through the picture. His face remained stoic as he took in the information on her report.

_Clean cut across the victim's throat._

_Golden necklace left at the scene._

_No evidence of forced entry._

It was eating him inside to have to read this and see the pictures attached them. Remorse was threatening to creep over him and pull him into its depths, not at all about to let him go from its grasp. It was sickening to think that the perpetrator was in his building and managed to overwhelm Bobbi. Did she scream for him? Did she fight to survive? Or perhaps she did know him, and she allowed him into the home.

He slammed the folder shut and pinched the bridge of his nose to repress the feeling. No. He needed to focus, he had to remain professional and prevent personal feelings from getting in the way. Clint had to—

"You okay there, Clint?"

He immediately sat up straight in his chair and looked up to meet Detective Coulson's gaze. A grin appeared on Clint's lips as he shook his head and relaxed.

"I have a headache. You know how it goes after sitting on your keister for longer than necessary."

Coulson gave a half-smile, though it disappeared in one quick motion. "Can't say that I've had the feeling."

It was safe to say that Phil Coulson from Traffic unnerved Clint more than the other detectives in the LAPD. He was the only one who never loosed his cool and always seemed to pop out of nowhere. His disciplined nature and off-hand witty remarks would sometimes cause the others to avoid making small talk with him. Coulson didn't seem to mind at all since he carried on with unwavering indifference.

"Headache or not I'm sure you can handle it. There's _absolutely_ no pressure at all."

"I can't tell if you're being sincere or not."

Coulson's smile returned before he gave Clint a nod. "Good luck. You're gonna need it."

When Coulson turned to walk to his desk, Maria hill—a rookie beat cop—appeared at the doorway of the large space in the department. Her brown eyes flickered from one detective to the other before they came to rest upon Clint Barton's desk. The blue folder seemed to gain her attention as she briskly walked over towards his desk and handed him the white envelope that was clutched so tightly in her hand.

"Captain Fury said you would want to see this, detective."

Grabbing the envelope from the officer's hand, Clint's fingers delved into it to grab its contents. By now, a small crowd had gathered around his desk in anticipation to what he might find from the mysterious envelope. No return address was on it, instead _Los Angeles Police Department_ was scrawled on the surface in messy handwriting.

His hand produced a book of matches with _The Pearl of Danube Club_ printed intricately on the front of it. Setting it down on the desk the crowd gathered around as they murmured among themselves. Seconds later, he pulled out a pair of golden earrings and set them beside the matchbook.

"It's gotta be a copycat. Since when does the killer start giving out potential evidence like this?" Coulson muttered as Maria leaned forward.

"I know where that nightclub is." Maria announced. "I walk beat there."

Clint grabbed the items and placed them back into the envelope before fixing the small crowd with a stern look. "That's it, fellas, nothing else to see."

The crowd dispersed with mumbles and mutters here and there. It left both the beat cop and the traffic detective standing in their places as he looked from one to the other.

"That means you guys too."

Maria took the opportunity to educate Clint on the matter. "Don't you want information on that nightclub? It's a hangout that entertains-"

"I know who goes there, I know what goes on there, and I know who owns it." He quipped at the officer while grabbing his dark gray coat jacket and sticking the envelope inside the pocket. "I can handle questioning Mister Stark on my own."


	2. Chapter 2

It occurred to Clint that Tony Stark wasn't looking to participate. He was deflecting his questions here and there with humor that only he found funny. At any time, he would've perhaps exchanged jokes with the man if not for the fact that he was here to solve the murders.

And so when Clint once again asked him if the matches looked familiar, Stark glanced down and smirked at the matches in the transparent bag, no doubt lining up another sarcastic remark.

"It looks familiar. Oh, wait, it _is_ familiar because they're _free_ here."

To say that his patience was wearing thin was an understatement. Clint could only handle so much of him, and he briefly wondered how long it would be before he lost his cool.

Stark was difficult to deal with and it didn't help that he was practically belittling the detective. Through close observation, he noticed the way the man would run his fingers every now and then through the dark stubble growing on his chin. He also caught the way his dark brown eyes would flicker from him to the stage as though he was expecting company.

They were seated at a table in the center of the area that served as the place for the club-goers to dine and enjoy entertainment. The club was large with dark red painted walls and three large crystal chandeliers with gold finishings hanging from the ceiling. Five pillars on both the east and west end kept the club leveled, and even they had personal touches of gold lining in each crease. Lastly, a platform at the end of the room served as the stage where band members were already setting up for the evening.

"Look unless you're going somewhere with your so-called evidence I have a business to run. I can't afford to be distracted."

_Why do they always have to act like jerks?_ "Mister Stark with the way you're acting right now I say you got something to hide." He sneered which caused the other man to grin in amusement.

"Do you really have a case here or are you looking for something to help you pass the time?" Tony chuckled, lifting his glass of water and taking a sip.

"I didn't come down to your establishment to be made the butt of your jokes." It was when Clint pulled out the pair of golden earrings that he noticed Tony's arrogant smirk disappearing altogether. "Do these look familiar, Stark? These were sent to LAPD along with the _free_ matches. A fine establishment such as this is bound to have dames working for you. Should I start with the hostess or the hat checker? How 'bout the singers?"

Stark leaned forward with his hand outstretched. "Can I see them?"

"You can see them fine from right here."

With a huff, the club-owner's eyes scrutinized the jewelry for a minute before leaning back into his seat.

His attitude changed as a sigh passed his lips. "The girls don't wear these fancy looking small hoops," he admitted. "Neither does Pepper."

"Pepper?" Clint repeated with subtle curiosity.

Stark nodded. "She takes over during the day and turns this place into a dance hall for the kids. I said no at first but she tends to not listen to me. Ever. But hey, I know how to pick the broads."

"Any others I can perhaps question?" Once he saw Stark about to get up he quickly stopped him from doing so by placing a hand on the table to gain his attention once more. "I'm trying to prevent the next victim from ending up in the coroner's office."

His eyes suddenly darted towards the door with Clint following his gaze.

He found himself at a loss for words at the sudden appearance of a woman entering the club. She was young, with short curly red hair that fell to her shoulders, and bright blue eyes that immediately caught his stare as she sauntered by their table. Her white-collard black dress stopped just above her knees while the skirt flowed with the grace of her walk. Clint couldn't take his eyes off her, and he found himself completely immersed with her presence.

It wasn't in his nature to completely be awed by a dame, though from time to time he had to admit that any broad who caught his attention definitely kept it. Hell, Bobbi had attracted him at first glance when she moved into the apartment down the hall from him…

He quickly broke free from his trance, and soon found that the young woman was standing directly at the table. His eyes flickered to meet Stark's, and found that he was enjoying the awkward moment.

"This is Hawkshaw from LAPD," he took it upon himself to introduce him. "You're here early."

She looked from her employer to Clint; her face was a cool mask of indifference as their eyes met. She didn't offer any smile, and instead turned back to Stark.

"I was fired from the boutique," she responded casually. Her gloved hands were folded in front of her as they held the small black clutch.

Clint observed the way Tony's face seemed to blanch from her answer, and judging by how fast his head snapped up to meet her unwavering gaze, it was safe to say that he wasn't pleased.

His jaw unclenched before he asked, "You were fired again?"

"This time because I told a fella who happened to be shopping for his _wife_ that I'll bump him off if he didn't lay off the innuendos."

A smirk came about his lips before he once again relaxed into his seat. "That was smart."

Her gaze fell back onto Clint just as she crossed her arms. "Is he here to finally arrest you?"

"Since when have I ever gotten arrested?" Stark remarked as he stood up. "It was real nice meeting you, Hawkshaw. I'm sure you gotta go back out and make an arrest."

"Flattery is not gonna make me leave faster," Clint replied as his eyes met hers once more. "I would like to ask you a few questions concerning the case if that's alright with you."

Much to his surprise she nodded. "Of course, I'm sure Tony won't mind. Won't you, Tony?"

Tony squared his shoulders back as he stood up. "By all means, Red."

He gave her a pat on the shoulder, shot Clint another look, and calmly strode off towards his office. She had then smoothed the back of her dress before sitting in the chair that had been occupied by Tony. Her lips lifted in a half-smile as she leaned forward on her arms with her eyes locked on Clint.

"I have to say that I'm surprised you're here questioning him."

"These matches and earrings were sent to the LAPD with no return address whatsoever," he disregarded her comment and pushed the bag containing both items across the table in her direction. "We believe that the killer may be targeting this place next."

Her eyes fell to the bag, one finger traced over the small book of matches as she seemed to be contemplating her answer. He waited patiently, busying himself with scrawling down her description into his notepad. By then the band began to play a tune that was all too familiar to him, though he ignored it, he couldn't help but attempt to recall the last time he had heard it.

_Are you sure you can't remember? Or maybe you just don't want to. _

"Patsy was the first," he seized his movements as he looked up and caught her stare. "She was the first victim to be killed by that creep."

"Did you know her?"

She nodded and pushed the bag back towards him. Once again looking uninterested as she spoke, "She worked here as a cigarette girl almost every night. Mostly on the nights that I worked so we could walk home together."

Clint scoffed as he wrote down the newest piece of information. A bit aggravated at the fact that Tony failed to mention that during their discussion. "Stark didn't mention that she worked here. Come to think of it, he was never questioned or checked out after she died."

"Patsy didn't like being a cigarette girl," she quipped, her posture growing rigid with her eyes guarded as she watched him. "She detested the uniform, she was on her feet for nine hours straight, and she had so-called 'gents' making lewd remarks instead of buying from her tray."

"What does that have to do with this place not being the first stop?"

"You tell me, _detective_. She used an alias here and never told anyone about her job."

Clint noticed that she hadn't said anything about the bag's contents. Then again, it appeared as though she wasn't planning on saying anything more to him. Speaking of Patsy seemed to make her uncomfortable, yet the sudden connection to her and the victim caused him to become suspicious of her intentions.

"You said you knew her."

"That's right."

"Why didn't you step forward months ago? You spoke of her like any close friend would, yet you didn't come to us with this bit of information."

She was caught off guard by this, and it took her a moment to regain her composure as she leaned in and beckoned the detective to come closer. Clint timidly complied and felt her warm breath glide across his ear as her lips formed the words with her voice carrying them.

"I'm done answering your questions. They won't bring Patsy back."

She pulled away to gauge his reaction, alas much to her confusion she caught the faint smirk that appeared on his face for that one moment. _He was smirking? But why? _She had changed her voice to sound sultry so as to make a clean get away and avoid answering his questions. It was to be something simple, and yet it hadn't gone the way she hoped. It almost seemed as if he was mocking her, letting her know that that trick wouldn't work on him.

The music coming from the band failed to drown out his words.

"You seemed stunned, at a loss for words, speechless." He tapped the bag once, and raised an eyebrow at the way her eyes shot down to it. Her breathing hitched in her throat, her lips pulling inward, though her face remained blank. "You didn't say anything about these items and you seem to be avoiding saying anything more about Patsy."

Oh the way her eyes looked at him just then. The look she was giving him may have made any other man stutter out an apology right then and there. _That's exactly what she wants_, he mused, _she wants me to drop it_. However, Clint wasn't prone to giving in so quickly, especially for a broad like her.

"If you know anything, Miss, you need to level with me. I want to prevent this from happening again."

Her red curls bounced as she shook her head. "I need to go."

In the midst of getting up, she caused the glasses to knock over, spilling the water on the white linen cloth. Clint didn't stop her from leaving as she made her way towards the door near the stage. He could've demanded that she come back and answer his questions, but he knew well enough to know that being unpleasant wouldn't get him the results he was looking for.

He grabbed the bag while getting up and tipped his hat towards the bouncer—who had been watching the whole scene—before exiting the club. Making his way outside he walked swiftly towards the gamewell and opened the box to pick up the receiver.

Clint hung up the phone almost immediately just as the operator had answered. Instead, he caught sight of the rookie beat cop cross the street while making her way towards him. _Perfect timing_.

"Officer Hill!"

She was startled by the sudden outburst, but relaxed once she found Clint coming towards her.

"Hey there, detective," Maria greeted.

"The red-head that works here," Clint began with a gesture of his head towards the club. "What's her name?"

A sly grin came about her lips just then. "Now you need my help." Her tone carried a hint of arrogance even though she wasn't known to be the obnoxious sort. However, seeing as how he had dismissed her earlier, he figured that this was an amusing surprise to her. "The only red-head I know is the singer here, Natasha Romanoff."

_Bingo_. "Thanks, Hill."

Though Clint didn't exactly gather the suspect just yet the information _Natasha_ had relayed to him was helpful. All he had to do now was return to the department and go through the files and reports in order to pass the time. A glance at his watch indicated that it was a quarter past two in the afternoon, which meant that he had four hours to spare.

This meant he would use the time to come up with an effective plan to get Natasha to come clean with him.


	3. Chapter 3

_A/n: I changed the story's title because I think this sounded much better! _

* * *

It was the third time in that same hour that Dr. Bruce Banner looked over at where Clint was sitting. The coroner offered him a stool to sit on since the detective had come to see him, but alas the man chose to sit upon the metal countertop and used the stool for his feet instead. This time, Clint had caught the doctor's stare and offered a wave in return as he bit into the sandwich.

"You keep looking at me doc and I'm gonna start assuming something."

"I just don't understand why you want to sit up so high for," Bruce answered timidly. "And why you're eating while I'm working."

Chewing the remnants of his steak sandwich, Clint shrugged which caused the doctor to roll his eyes as he continued working on John Doe.

"I don't like sitting so close to the floor, and the steak sandwich is because I missed breakfast and lunch today. Plus, dead bodies don't faze me, doc."

"I see. So what did you want to talk about?"

Clint swallowed as his eyes drifted towards another body on a separate slab. He didn't know for sure whether or not that was her underneath the white sheet, but the body itself served in her place as a cruel reminder that she was really dead. Gone just like that, and Clint couldn't change that. No matter how many times he remained awake at night haunted by the images; not even his dreams could do a better job at it.

He was a cop. He should have protected her.

Clint's eyes returned to Bruce, thankful that the doctor didn't notice his sudden pause. "I want some info from the bodies you worked on, Patsy Walker…and Barbara Morse."

Pulling his hands out of the torso, Bruce looked over at him before turning back to pull the white sheet up over John Doe. He removed the white gloves with a snap from each hand, and threw them in the waste basket beside him. Clint finished off the remainder of his lunch before scooting himself closer against the wall.

"Well, from what I saw on the scene itself, it appeared as though the suspect had used a large knife and made a clean cut across the first victim's jugular. One motion before letting her drop back to the floor and bleed out."

"We never found the murder weapon either, and we shook that place down and all around the house's vicinity."

"But," Bruce began as he stared at Clint with an intense gaze. "The way this guy did the cut showed a lot. It was a deep, slow cut. He didn't do it in one fast movement, he made sure the blade went in deep and he did that with a slow steady hand. He wanted to sever the vocal cords because he wanted both his victims to suffer a slow death by bleeding out."

Clint grimaced as he put two and two together. "And he did that so they couldn't scream."

"Exactly."

"What I'm trying to figure out is why he puts pieces of gold jewelry with them. What's the purpose?"

"Believe it or not gold is symbolic for it can mean a lot of things," Bruce pointed out as he began washing his hands in the basin. "In the Hindu culture, gold represents the Goddess Lakshmi of wealth."

The detective used his foot to knock over the stool which caused Bruce to turn and fix him with a pointed look.

"Unless the goddess herself is involved I don't see the connection."

"You're the detective here. I'm just trying to help since you don't like having partners of your own."

It was common knowledge among the police department that Clint worked well without a partner. His work ethic had him get done a lot quicker than most, but this time it appeared that these cases were going to cause him to have sleepless nights. Not that he already didn't, however, it would cause him to lose sleep as he worked a rigorous schedule to solve the cases before the killer struck again. Considering how it was already nearing the end of the month, he didn't have a lot of time.

Natasha was still plaguing his mind since it seemed that the killer would seek a broad from the club as his latest victim. His gut told him that it was most likely to be her even though he wasn't completely sure.

_He's probably setting up some kind of pattern_. "Maybe he's gonna go by some kind of an arrangement; Patsy was a red-head, Bobbi was a blonde. Next time a brunette? Another blonde or a red-yellow pattern? It's complicated."

It was then that Bruce fixed him with a skeptical look that Clint raised an eyebrow. He thought at first that the doctor probably thought he was a fool for coming up with a ridiculous motive, but the longer they locked gazes the more he felt that it wasn't that. Bruce Banner was known for speaking his mind despite who it was. His shy nature allowed him to better assess those around him, and once he got a fair judgment, he wouldn't hold back.

This was partly why Coulson avoided him.

"Clint," he said slowly, "didn't you mean Barbara?"

He diverted his gaze to the lime green linoleum of the floor and refused to meet Bruce's gaze. "I said Barbara."

"You said Bobbi."

He didn't know why he was denying it for he knew that Bruce was right. There was nothing wrong with calling her by what she herself preferred, but for Clint it meant that she was somewhat still alive. He didn't want anyone to second guess him and assume that he couldn't handle the cases on his own.

This was where personal conflictions often clashed with one's duties.

Clint looked up at Bruce again and said, "We were close. Just—let's leave it at that and not mention it ever again."

To his surprise, Bruce offered an understanding smile as he removed his glasses to clean the lenses. His face conveyed an inner struggle within himself as he used the end of his shirt to clean them. Though Clint didn't know why, he presumed that somehow he could relate to him.

"I would be lying if I said I couldn't relate, but I could." Bruce glanced up and placed the glasses back on. He then stuffed his hands into the pockets of his dark dress plants while balancing himself on the balls of his feet. His expression was a diversion from what he really felt on the inside, and although Clint couldn't figure out what, he knew it had to be personal.

"What are you planning to do?"

"I wanna stop this guy before he goes for another dame. I'm just killing time until the opening tonight."

Bruce raised an eyebrow at his comment. "An opening?"

"The club doesn't officially open until seven tonight," he answered matter-of-factly. "I plan to be there to greet Miss Romanoff again."

He once again busied himself with cleaning up his area. No doubt Clint knew that Bruce had to keep busy while talking. "Do you really think she's hiding something?"

The detective shrugged not at all quite sure what to make of it. Natasha was suspicious as was her employer, both had something to hide that much was evident in their behavior. It was made clear that she didn't want anything to do with him and his investigation but it didn't matter. He would get his answers soon enough, perhaps he would have her visit Patsy in the morgue to stress his point on how important this was.

_That's cruel_, he thought, _I'm not one of those guys_.

Clint looked up to see that Bruce was busy writing up the file on John Doe. The coroner was always intent on keeping himself preoccupied with work, and never missed the opportunity to devote himself to it. He supposed it was because it was easier to get loss into it—forgetting everything else that troubled him. In that moment, Clint found himself wishing that he hadn't accepted the cases because even though he enjoyed his work he knew that he was becoming emotionally attached to them.

Clint sighed in a dramatic fashion that caused the other man to snap his gaze over to him. "Am I boring you, Barton?"

"Didn't you want an answer to your question?" he asked.

"It's of no importance to me."

He deadpanned. "And you wonder why people avoid having a conversation with you."

A smirk touched Bruce's lips as he went back to his paperwork. "As a matter of fact, I don't. I enjoy my solitude and my privacy."

Sliding off the table, Clint bent down to pick up the stool before heading towards the door. He stopped, turned to throw a look at him, and saw that he had stopped to watch him.

"Thanks for the pep talk, doc," Clint muttered with a tilt of his lips. "You're not so bad after all."

"You aren't either, detective," Bruce responded. "You're not as bad as Fury made you out to be."

* * *

The red lipstick was an extra touch, a sort of flare that drew the attention to her and made sure it stayed on her.

Natasha didn't enjoy wearing so much make-up, but she enjoyed the fact that it made her a whole different person. In that moment, she wasn't Natasha Romanoff, but just another night club singer with a pretty face with a good voice. It drew her admirers and friends alike even though she wasn't seeking any kind of that attention. She was satisfied with singing on a nightly basis, and she appreciated the support of the people there and as well as Stark.

Tony Stark, son of oil tycoon Howard Stark, wasn't a bad guy. He came off as arrogant and obnoxious but that was part of his appeal. Everyone loved being around the man, and in turn he came to love the attention he drew. In fact, even she had to admit that his personality managed to charm her, but then there were those times when she really wanted to give him a good smack across the face.

She grabbed the gold rose hairpin and clipped part of her hair to the side. Her reflection showed a confident young woman with a pair of alluring blue eyes and full red lips. However, she felt far from confident.

That detective had stirred something within her, a feeling that she had suppressed and was sure that wouldn't rear its ugly head again. But it had, and now she didn't know how to handle it. The small white bottle of barbiturates sat innocently beside her jar of powder on the vanity. It had been months since she last used them, but now they were calling out to her. The small white pills had this overwhelming effect on her, a kind of feeling that made her relaxed and content for a small amount of time.

Though it had been two years since her aunt's passing, she still somewhat relied on them. When Tony had noticed her singing in that ice cream parlor last year, he had taken her under his wing and made her the star she was at his club. This bit of happiness should've forced her to stop depending on the pills, but the recent events that followed made her take them again.

Tony was absolutely livid when she took them because he could tell from the glazed look in her eyes that the drugs were in her system. He had told her before that she didn't need them—that she could sing better without being medicated. That was when she had promised to stop taking them. Now, the temptation was back in full force and Natasha wasn't completely confident that she could do without them. _I'll only be singing three songs_, she thought to herself, _I won't be on stage for long_.

_I don't need them._

A knock on her door startled her from her daze. "Twenty minutes until you're on, Miss Romanoff!"

Cursing underneath her breath for the man's perfect timing, she turned her head with a scowl. "Thank you, Jarvis!" she called and turned to look into the mirror once more.

_I don't need them._

Twenty minutes later found Natasha making her way towards the stage. The band was just near the end of the song that they were playing as they waited for her. Slowly, she glided across the red carpet in her heels while hiking up the shimmering gold dress to avoid meeting the floor if she were to trip. Once she reached the edge of the curtains, she stopped to observe the large crowd that had formed there.

Her observant blue eyes gazed over everyone as she waited for Jarvis to announce her on stage. They froze on a familiar face sitting at a table near the front entrance, as they narrowed in she noticed that it was indeed the detective from earlier. A smug look of satisfaction was present on his face as he took a sip of his drink. Did he know she was there? Watching him from behind the curtain?

"I'm going to watch you be unmade," Natasha murmured to herself. Her red lips forming a secretive smirk of her own as then made her way onto the stage.

She extended a gloved hand towards Jarvis who in return kissed her covered knuckles before taking his leave. Murmurs among the crowd were heard as she adjusted the microphone to her liking and she never once gazed up to meet his stare.

She could very much tell his eyes were on her.

Natasha looked over shoulder and gave a nod towards the guitarist. Once he began plucking the strings in a paced movement, the rest of the band followed in sync. The murmurs quieted down as the music became louder, and when she looked up she saw the detective pause from putting his drink down.

"_There's a story the gypsies know is true…"_

Once she felt herself beginning to relax, Natasha stood up straight and locked eyes with him.

"_That when your love wears golden earrings, they belong to you."_

By the end of the hour, she had gone through five songs in total with two being added on by her own choice. She was stalling, and why? The detective's gaze had startled her at the end of the first song. It was a risky move to sing that one in particular, but she knew it to be a club favorite among the patrons.

Natasha figured that it would provoke his suspicion of her, but she didn't care. Now nearing the end of the fifth song, she was already planning to evade him by making a quick exit towards her dressing room. She normally would say her "thank you" and "goodnights" after a set; however, she wasn't planning to give him time to catch her off guard.

The singer closed her eyes for a minute—allowing the divine sound of the piano fill in the time before she sung again—and when she opened her eyes she found that he was no longer within her line of sight.

"_Maybe you're meant to be mine. Maybe I'm only supposed to stay in your arms a while."_

At the end, Natasha hurried herself off the stage with a mumbled "thank you" before making her way towards her dressing room. As she neared her room she immediately cursed under her breath as she saw him standing in front her room.

"I have to admit, you got a great voice."

Natasha stopped beside him. "Move aside."

He feigned a look of hurt as he placed a hand over his chest. "There's no need to be rude, _Miss Romanoff_, I was giving you a compliment."

She narrowed her eyes at him as soon as he called her by name. Tony hadn't introduced her by name to him and vice versa, instead he had made up his own nicknames for them both. He had to have done some investigation on her, and that would mean that he knew where she was from and what she had done to get here.

"Natasha," he began with a genuine smile. "My name is Detective Clint Barton. Your employer did a poor job in correctly introducing us."

"I don't care for you too much right now," she bluntly said as she tried to move past him to her room. Clint merely moved himself closer to her completely blocking off her access and thus irritating her further.

"I'm not trying to make you hate me," he replied with a snap of his tongue. "I need your help."

Natasha had been about to retort when she noticed that he had leaned in. Their eyes met as all seemed to stand still for that moment while he observed her. Rather than try to make her way inside her dressing room, the young woman continued to stare right back at him. Nothing else mattered, she was content with just gazing back into his eyes in some peculiar way it soothed her better than any pill could.

"Are you taking barbiturates?"

And just as easily his voice managed to upset her. "Is it a crime to take something for a headache, detective?"

Giving her a sly grin, he managed to step aside to allow her into her room. "Not at all."

When she didn't slam the door in his voice, Clint took it as a sign to lean against the doorway much to her displeasure. Natasha sat down in her chair and proceeded to take off the remaining jewelry that adorned her neck and wrists.

All of it gold.

She took off her long white gloves as she sat there. "You want my help in solving cases with no leads," she reached for the jar of cream and began applying it to her hands. "Why not just leave them be?"

"It's my job to solve cases. Particularly those involving homicides, not to mention that the killer isn't done yet."

Natasha paused and turned around in the chair to look at him. "Are you saying he's out there?"

"I am," Clint answered. "Interested?"

Her face fell flat. "No."

A sigh left past his lips as she turned back and began rubbing the lotion once more. Being caught up in a high-profiled case wasn't what she wanted. Natasha was smart enough to know that being involved would mark her a dead woman. Why take that chance? Why should she stick her neck out for two _dead_ women?

_Because Patsy would have for you._

"I know when to give up but this is something I'm not planning to forget about anytime soon." Clint took a step inside her room with caution, and when she looked at him through her mirror, he stopped. "You froze up when I showed you those earrings. You do know that was a warning? Maybe you can point me to who they belong to."

Natasha gave a dry laugh in response. "Of course I know who they belong to." Watching as Clint kept his gaze on her, she gave him a sardonic smile as she slowly wiped off the red lipstick.

"Those are my golden earrings."


End file.
